


Bird

by penhales



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Past Abuse, Symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penhales/pseuds/penhales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(titled after the song by Billie Marten)<br/>A collection of moments in both Sansa and Sandor's lives, past and present. The littlest things can bind people together for a lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This first bit may be triggering for past victims of abuse. It's a very brief moment, but I want to make sure no one unintentionally triggers themselves. You can actually skip this chapter entirely if you don't want to read it!! It's not entirely necessary to the rest of the plot, it's only here to give some context. 
> 
> I actually wrote this piece far before my modern AU fic was a thought in my head, but recently I've found myself focusing too many of my efforts on this work to not post it. And btw, Chapter 4 is coming down the chute, but here's a little something to tide over your Sansan needs. :)

The salt air from the heated sea stung her nostrils. She could still almost hear, high on the ramparts, Shae calling after her in shrill tones. She could feel Cersei’s eyes burning hot on the back of her neck, there was no need to turn her head and look. The sound of the water striking the sand filled her head and the sun warmed her skin against the sea breeze.

The foam came in, warm, around her chilled ankles. She took another step forward, to feel it on the backs of her knees. She was so cold and it was so warm. Another few steps and it was at her hips, dragging her forward, closer, embracing her. She was only momentarily deterred by the distracting sound of Shae splashing through the tide after her, but the sound died away as Shae was halted. Edging ever more towards the heart of the sea, which was fully embracing her, her breaths evened, her body felt numb. Her heart was at such a peaceful, steady pulse as she pulled her head under the surface, gulping water, releasing breaths and not inhaling again. 

Her stomach was sinking with the disappointment and ache of it all. This was the only right choice. She wouldn’t marry any lord or king. She wouldn’t bear any children. Her destiny remained firmly planted in death, as it had for her father. She thought briefly of the mermaids her septa had spoken of, _‘to become a mermaid and marry a king’_ , she thought, ‘ _if only I could be a mermaid and marry a_ _king_ ’ but the focus didn’t last as her body became filled with panic. Her lungs fought the drowning, and they tried desperately to inhale, taking in only salt water and sand. She began to clutch at her throat. Her dress was too heavy and she could not swim.

He pulled her from the water then, by her hair, and she was coughing, trying to scream. The water was icy cold.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Her scalp burned and she still couldn't breathe, she couldn't reach around to him to release herself. 

She was screaming. 

 


	2. Chapter One (cont)

Sansa woke with somewhat of a start beside her husband. It took some time for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of their bedroom, but once familiar with her surroundings again she was able to calm her racing heart. She didn’t often have nightmares, but on occasion the ghosts of her past would emerge in her subconscious and Sansa would lose her appetite for sleep. 

Shifting her nearly unseeing gaze to her husband’s still sleeping form, the knot in her chest loosened. His features were relaxed and even, not yet burdened by a day’s troubles. It broke her heart that her vision was failing. She would miss waking only to be calmed back to the arms of sleep by the sight of his kind face. He had always slept so easily, rarely waking from nightmares, easily waking for and then falling back to sleep after comforting their babes, and she envied him. Their children were far too old to wake either of them now and she missed that, too. She missed the sense of peace in walking through the silent rooms of their home, humming Florian and Jonquil under her breath, and then sleeping like she was dead far past sunrise. Her husband would wake her and laugh in his rasping way, amused by the notion that wee children could bring her down with no difficulty, she, the Iron Lady of the North.

In the days before their young ones, they’d both slept fitfully, their nights dotted with the fears from their pasts. Sansa would be woken multiple times in a night, often waking to see her husband already awake beside her, sitting on the edge of the bed to calm himself. Sometimes she would see Joffrey’s face just before she woke and other times she’d see Petyr’s. More often than their faces, she saw the faces of her lost kin. She saw Robb and her father, scowling with disapproval, and her mother’s face white with shock and shame. Over and over she woke, only able to be lulled back into sleep by the soothing tones of her husband’s voice.

“Hush, little bird, it is over.”

 


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashbacks continue.

Sansa’s cheek still throbbed from the sting of Ser Meryn’s hand. Shae smiled at her sadly and, while arranging her hair, described how she’d help disguise the bruise. It did nothing to settle Sansa’s stomach. For days, Sansa hadn’t been interested in eating a thing and it was beginning to show on her figure and face. The ladies of the Southern court preferred fuller, healthier figures with curves enhanced by corsets and at her young age, Sansa couldn’t keep up with them. The ladies of the North had only prepared her for fitting into tightly cinched corsets, narrowing her waist so that her lord husband’s hands could fit around her with ease. 

Her stomach had first been turned by Joffrey when she’d caught him watching her eat at supper. His piercing eyes were narrowed directly on her mouth. Her food began to taste dull and uninteresting, and the food she’d managed to get down before turned to ash in the pit of stomach. Sansa begged softly to be excused and it took some time convincing Cersei to encourage Joffrey to release her. Eventually, he lost interest in Sansa’s eating habits and let her go to her chambers, though he insisted upon the Hound acting as her escort. Much to Sansa’s displeasure, the Hound kept a firm hand on her elbow, leading her swiftly through the halls. She tripped once, over the first step of the stairs near the royal family's quarters, but he caught her and had her firmly on her feet again before she could blink.

Sansa felt foolish, constantly running from Joffrey. She would have to learn to eat beside her husband, even if he wanted to glower at her mouth while she ate.

“You’re a delicate little thing, aren’t you?”

The Hound’s gruff tones plucked her from her distraction. She looked up at him, unsure of what to say in response.

“Can’t even get through a dinner with him without losing your constitution.”

His words were colored with mockery and her face burned red hot with embarrassment. She resolved to give no response, as there were no appropriate words for a lady to answer with. She made some worthless attempt to snag her arm away, but he held fast. Some amusement tinged his face and she felt her stomach turning even sourer than it had with Joffrey before. He thought her illness was false, some kind of poor excuse to leave the miserable environment of the dinner table. Sansa stopped on heels suddenly and barely managed to cover her mouth in time for a dry heave. He let her go long enough to lean over the hall window’s ledge and lose the contents of her stomach. Sansa heaved for several minutes before sinking to the floor to catch her breath. The Hound stood at her side, doing nothing at first. Slowly, he laid a hand on her back and in a tone she almost swore was apologetic, he murmured,

“Come on, little bird. You’ll be alright, we're almost there.”

He took her hand and gently helped her to her feet, careful to brace her back the rest of the walk to her chamber. Shae opened the door to them and glared reproachfully at him.

“You’ll be wanting to fetch some hot water and mint for the little bird. She took ill not ten steps from here.”

And like that he was gone, leaving her to be attended by Shae.

Worse than the embarrassment of being sick in front of him, Sansa had felt stung by his words. Though she found that the sting of her cheek was eased by glancing down to look at the handkerchief balled in her hand. Her own blood stained it, but it was pristine and white otherwise. She couldn’t stop thinking of it, how it had all happened. Sansa had never thought the Hound to be a tender man, but there he was, stooped to accommodate her height, a hand steadying her shoulder while he wiped the blood from her lip. Joffrey had been unamused by his guard’s display of concern and left them, too bored by the whole thing to bother with reprimanding either of them.

The Hound pressed the cloth into her hand waited for Joffrey to stalk off. He gently scolded her,

“Save yourself some pain, girl. Give him what he wants. You’ll be needing that again.”

And Sansa knew he was right. One blow from Ser Meryn on Joffrey’s command meant that there were more blows waiting. Always more waiting. He wouldn’t be satisfied until she cried, bled, or both.   



	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pups!

It wasn’t until Sansa's first time full with child that she felt some kind of absolution about her choices in life.

The first of her babes was Enda. She’d been so difficult to birth, hours and hours in strenuous labor for a tiny babe that could fit in only one of her husband’s hands. She’d proved to be somewhat difficult to rear as well, sickly, but as she grew older, she became the spitting image of Arya. She preferred riding and hunting by her father’s side over learning to sew by Sansa’s, but Sansa was silently so glad of it. She rejoiced that her daughter would not be crushed by some vassal lord, and Sansa would sooner die than arrange a forced match for her child. Sansa was all too familiar with arranged marriages, and after having married for love, herself, she refused to deny her daughter the same privilege. And, of course, there was Sandor.

When Enda first rested in his palm, Sansa could see in his face that it was a deeper love than he’d been capable of before. Sandor refused to let anyone else be in charge of her match-making, ever his daughter’s guide. He brought worthy match after worthy match before Enda, and every man there she turned away because she loved none of them. Sandor was displeased with her at first, but at his wife's urging, learned to let his daughter be. As long as Enda called Sansa her mother, she would never be a Lady Poole or a Lady Ryswell except by her own choosing.

The next two had been Sansa’s through and through. Young Ned above all was hers, growing to be bookish and awkward. She taught him to read and to write, finding much joy in sharing her favorite stories of the wars with him. Ned would soon be twelve, still a boy, but already speaking with nearly grown intellect. Hardly two years after Ned came Agenor, and his thirst for adventure was unequaled. As a younger boy, he spent hours at Sansa's knee, listening to song after song and requesting story after story from her, which drove Ned mad with jealousy.

Sandor had struggled with him as well. He wished to train his boys in sword and sport from a young age and neither of them wanted to leave Sansa’s side. Eventually, Agenor had begrudgingly given in, but much to Sansa’s delight he learned to love sword wielding after all. Despite his wild Tully red hair, Agenor would one day be built like his father, a man of some large stature with a face like unweathered stone. Ned still stood some inches below Agenor’s height and was willowy in the limbs, much like his uncle Brandon, with the same dark hair and eyes. The boys were a picture of entertaining opposites beside each other.

The fourth was Roland. He was quiet, shy, and scared to death of his older sister and brothers. Agenor disliked him openly, but Enda always tried her best to look after him. She once tried to teach him to shoot with a bow and on the day she’d planned for him to show off his new skill, he failed miserably right in front the whole family. Sandor had leaned over to Sansa and commented rather loudly,

“I never made much with one of them either. Sword’s a real man’s weapon.”

But Roland cared not for his attempt at encouragement, instead opting to spend the rest of the day out riding and climbing the trees near the weirwood. Like his father, Roland preferred to be fewer in company and to be farther from other people as he could comfortably be. Roland had the very image of his young father in his features, Sansa liked to imagine. His hair was so dark, like Ned’s and Enda’s, and he refused to cut it, letting it hang long over his face. He too would be a man of great size and strength, and his talent for silence and brooding would certainly secure his popularity among the men of the North. Since the rise of Jon Snow as King of The North, the Northerners preferred men of dark hair and quietly moody natures to lead. 

Fifth was little Thyra. Her sweetest and littlest was born with a head full of dark Clegane curls and very blue Tully eyes, much to Sansa’s delight. She had hoped at least one of her little ones would get her eyes, and of course, Thyra did.  She had seen scarcely more than the turn of the winter to summer, meeting each new year with warm, sunny laughter that rang like bells. The small amount of time Ned spent away from his scrolls and books, he spent entertaining her when Sansa couldn't. She begged him for stories of Brienne of Tarth, for Florian and Jonquil, for any sorts of adventures she could picture. Thyra’s favorite thing was to sit in Ned’s lap, touching the illustrations of Brienne in their books and chattering about her. Sandor had gone to some trouble finding them, going so far as paying illuminators to create pictures of the great warrior for their library. Brienne was much admired under Winterfell’s roof, most of all by Thyra and her father.

Thyra played pretend with her siblings much of the time, insistent on playing the part of Brienne of Tarth while the other parties portrayed various foes. Sansa knew that one day, she'd be well on her way to matching Brienne’s height. Between Sandor and herself, they possessed significant height and it seemed only fit that one of their girls could grow to match Brienne’s frame. Sansa could only hope she would, no one would dare raise a hand to her. And who could, anyhow? Her mother would teach her to be courteous and sweet and her father would teach her where to strike a man and make it count.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in flashback land...

Sandor stared at her, his eyes cold and hard, a flush of anger in his cheeks.

“What did you do to your hair?”

Sansa remembered then that she’d kept the darkness in her hair. She preferred it that way, but the cold tone of Sandor’s voice made her wish she hadn’t.

“It needed changing. The kiss of fire is too easily spotted, Ser.”

The corner of his mouth curled.

“Is that what he told you?”

Sansa could feel Petyr at her side remaining perfectly still, analytical eyes trained on the man mere strides away from them. She tilted her head towards Petyr and quietly said,

“I’d think it best if you took your leave.”

Petyr touched her arm and her flesh crawled beneath his hand,

“Are you sure?”

She put on a pretty smile for him.

“I will join you later.”

Petyr took her hand and raised it to his lips, his eyes locked on hers in what she thought must be an attempt at flirtation. She hoped she was blushing, but she couldn't honestly tell. 

Sansa kept her eyes lowered as he left the hall, almost frightened to have to meet Sandor’s gaze. She did not look up until the sound of the door behind him and the fading of his footsteps. Sandor’s eyes looked wild and unfriendly, with a heat pooled behind them.

“What in the seven hells are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“I asked first.”

She fiddled with an ornate sleeve of her dark dress. She felt like a small girl playing in her mother’s clothes.

“Petyr helped me-“

Sandor interrupted her with a snort.

“Petyr, is it? Have you left your “Lord”s and “Ser”s behind the both of you now?”

Ignoring his outburst, Sansa continued.

“Lord Baelish, if it please you, brought me home.”

“I can only guess it’s all for a price.”

“He has been helping me out of the goodness of his spirit!”

“His heart and his pockets, more like! No man assists a pretty, rich girl for free.”

Her cheeks were flushed and her hands clenched into fists at her side.

“What is the meaning of this, Ser? What do you mean by coming to my hall and hurling insults at my guest?”

He was quiet only for a few moments, his anger visibly mounting. Sandor kept his respectful distance, his hands also clenched at his sides, his shoulders leaning forward aggressively. He never moved towards her, and the distance grew her confidence.

“I am here in your hall because I heard about you. All across the land, I was hearing about you, and I could hardly keep from trying to kill any man who so much as uttered your name to me.”

“Do you mean to kill me, Ser? Or to kill my guest, Lord Baelish?”

“Do I mean to kill you?”

Sandor angrily pulled his sword from its sheath and Sansa’s throat tightened. He stood unmoving for a few hairsplitting moments and she thought her heart might leap straight out of her throat. With a resigned sigh and a look of broken anger on his face, Sandor threw his blade to the ground.

Sansa took a step back and watched, taken aback, as Sandor pulled knives and swords from their sheathes and from hiding places on his person, casting them all down to the floor around him. His armor came down immediately after, a pile of metal all around his feet. He stepped away from all of it, standing as a man in traveling clothes, body free from the imposing prison of his customary suit of black metal. His arms outstretched at his waist, to show his empty hands.

“Have I ever hurt you, little bird?”

He finally asked, his voice heavy with emotion. Tears lurched to her eyes and Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat with difficulty.

“I no longer know you, Ser. There have been years since I saw you last.”

He came towards her and she stepped back once more, worried by the few steps left between them. He smelled of the forest rivers and lakes he’d no doubt spent months bathing in on his way to reach her. She could not catch the smell of wine on him.

“No longer know me?”

“No, Ser.”

“You never knew me, my lady.”

Sansa could not look away from his eyes. Where there had been fire and rage before, there was something much calmer, something more like sad understanding.

“The man you knew was called by a different name. I buried him many miles away from here.”

Her voice scarcely more than a whisper, Sansa asked,

“Why have you come here?”

“Will you marry him?”

She balked at him briefly.

“Are you asking if I am to be his lady wife?”

“I am.”

His eyes bore into hers with resolve. Sansa understood why he had come.

“It-it is intended within the fortnight.”

His eyes were shining with a few unintended tears. A feeling tore into her gut like steel straight through her. Sansa felt his hand warm on her cheek, and then he sank to his knees before her, holding her hands in his own.

“Do not marry him. I beg of you with all honor I may have left, if I have ever had any at all, do not marry him.”

Sansa couldn’t help from crying then, the tears running down her pale cheeks. Her eyes shone like freshly cut jewels to him.

“I must.”

A sob tore its way from her throat and she began to bend at the waist from the force of it. The thought of marrying Petyr was like a fist to her stomach. She had to love him. Didn’t she? Sansa didn’t understand the weight in her feet preventing her from stepping away from Sandor. She fell to her knees in front of him, unable to stop her hands from caressing his jaw and his face.

“I must marry him, I lov-“

Her lie died on her lips.

She dropped her head to lean into Sandor’s chest and she clutched at his tunic and cried. Sandor wrapped his arms around her. One of his hands rested over the nape of her neck, where her hair ended and her skin began. She tried speaking, but he pressed her closer against him instead. Sansa hadn’t cried so freely since before leaving King’s Landing. She felt that young again, like a child having to be snatched from danger’s jaws by Sandor Clegane. Every time, Sandor Clegane. Until she asked him to stop and he had to leave her behind. He stood with her now, his arms around her weeping form, saying nothing and demanding nothing. Sandor’s embrace was so gentle and easy and all she could do was sob into him and clutch at him like a frustrated child.

“I thought of you every day, girl.”

Sandor’s heart was fast against her ear and her own felt tugged by the very sound of it.

“There wasn’t a day I didn’t hate the man I was for leaving you to them.”

The Hound had left her behind for the Lannisters in King’s Landing and Sandor Clegane had hurt for it, she then understood. Sandor had come back for her after all, as she’d wished a thousand times. She tried to look up at him. She imagined her face looked swollen and red, and Sandor did not care. He passed a hand over her hair carefully, in hopes of providing some comfort without damaging the customary Northern braids she wore.

“I should have left with you, when I had the chance. I should never have hoped to get home. They were always going to take it from me.”

“I would have given you a home.”

And she knew she couldn’t do it. How could she marry Petyr this way? How could she let him take her home from her again, this time with his own hands? How could she let him kiss her and touch her? How could she birth his children? She simply could not. 

Sandor’s voice was soft and even as he said to her gently,

“There is still a home for you, my little bird, should you want it.”  



End file.
